“You have the right to remain stupid. …”
The final entry in The Duck! City trilogy that began with “Breaking Bad” and continued with “Better Call Saul” stars “This Fool” co-star Frankie Quiñones as Solomon Peña, a failed GOP candidate accused of ordering — and participating in — drive-bys on Democratic officials’ houses and offices.
Hilarity ensues. Or not.
Look for the premiere, “Don’t Recount … Reload!” on Court TV.
“Bad morning, Mr. O’Grady. We trust your wait was unpleasant
and overlong. Sauron will see you now.”
Looks like Mordor out there, doesn’t it?
High cloudiness robbed us of our full moon/total lunar eclipse this morning, and the Repugs will take everything else this evening, if you hew to the conventional wisdom.
Kevin Drum, who is a reasonable fellow for a lefty blogger, argues from time to time that the United States is a center-right country and that Democrats “need to moderate if they want to win over centrist voters.”
Maybe. But I think the Donks have been trying to be Repug Lite for a while now, to no particular purpose, and no matter how far they tiptoe to the right, they will always be at least one long goosestep behind.
“You got to put the kibble over where the slow dogs can get some,” as Roy Blount Jr. advised in “Why It Looks Like I Will Be the Next President of the United States, I Reckon.”
And the Donks do, bless their hearts. But it’s generally a sprinkle of some vegan non-GMO Oregon Tilth Certified Organic small-batch free-range hemp kibble, in a bespoke ceramic bowl, with 10 percent of the profits divided among Planned Parenthood, PETA, and the ACLU. And the marketing thereof — why this is a good thing and not just a stone saucer full of sawdust and spider webs — is polysyllabic and ponderous and even harder to swallow than the chow.
So the slow dogs bite the hand that feeds them, and then they scamper over to where the loud fella with the red tie is th’owin’ the raw meat on the ground.
Well sir, before long the slow dogs aren’t feeling so good and the national yard is a monument to canine intestinal distress and the loud fella with the red tie has wandered off somewhere to holler into a microphone about how everything’s gone to shit and the libs are to blame.
And so the libs trudge into the national yard with shovels and bags, clean up the mess and doctor the slow dogs while the loud fella with the red tie hollers at them through a bullhorn from the other side of the fence because that’s where the shit isn’t.
And before you can say “FREE DUMB!” the only thing any of the mutts can think about is how good that raw meat tasted.
Certainly seems serpentine. …
I don’t think so, but maybe we need a few of ’em around here.
Herself and I saw three defunct snakes at roadside during yesterday’s ride. At speed it was impossible to tell whether these were buzzworms or bull snakes, and since “at speed” is the way I prefer to view snakes, whether alive or dead, we’ll just have to content ourselves with blissful ignorance as regards species.
Speaking of vipers in the collective bosom, I understand today’s Justice for Jagoffs rally is starting to look like a tailgate party for a tank-town JV field-hockey match. Seems the paranoia strikes deep:
Users in far-right Internet forums and groups have claimed without evidence that the rally is a “trap,” created by the federal government to lure demonstrators to Washington, where federal officials will arrest them. Users also allege without evidence that the event will be infiltrated by left-wing activists who will disguise themselves as Trump supporters and deliberately cause trouble to make the rallygoers look unlawful.
Hee, and also haw, etc. Like The State needs to corral all these selfie-snapping shitheads in one place to snatch ’em up instead of picking them off one by one using their own social-media postings as a virtual breadcrumb trail to their various holes in the wall.
“I couldn’t do that. Could you do that? How can they do that? Who are those guys?”
Just a couple federales with a laptop, Butch. You and Sundance ever consider relocating to Bolivia? They love a good demonstration.
It’s been a long, long road.
While they continued to write and talk, we saw the wounded and the dying. — Erich Maria Remarque, “All Quiet on the Western Front”
I didn’t have much to say on the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, and a decade further on down the road I feel even less inclined to hold forth on the topic. A bunch of people got dead, maimed, or insane; another bunch got rich, famous, and powerful; and the rest of us went shopping.
Did we learn anything from the attacks and what Charlie Pierce calls “our blind, feral response?” Doubtful. We check the rear view every 10 years or so, but that’s just reflexive, like glancing at a TV as you pass.
Anything good on? Nahhhhhhh. Same ol’, same ol’. Hey, who wants to go to the mall?
Carrion, my wayward son. There’ll be peace when you are done.
A fat orange vulture lifts off the carcass of the Republic and flaps slowly off to the south.
He hadn’t finished his meal, but there will be others. Right now, the idea is to perch in Florida for a spell, let the stomach settle. But the neighbors there are restless. Something about a contract.
Yeah, and good luck with that. This zopilote treats paper the same way a broke-ass budgie would. You lay it down, he’ll shit on it. Then what you got is a bloated, grunting buzzard and a piece of paper, and both are full of shit.
There are ways to deal with invasive varmints, but paper — unless it’s some old-school wadding in a 12-gauge shotgun shell — generally isn’t much help.
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
Now, all evidence to the contrary, I am not entirely insane. I know in my heart of hearts that this bird is not really going anywhere today, regardless of where he roosts. He will be very much with us for many a dark moon, hissing and flapping and shitting on everything, because these are the only things he’s good at, other than lying and grifting and pissing away other peoples’ money.
He’ll still be doing that, too. The pension for the job he couldn’t be bothered to do between tweets is a cool $219,000 per annum at the moment, and he also gets office space, staff, access to health insurance, plus Secret Service backup to ensure that his beak will never write a check that his fat ass can’t cash. And the dummies will send him whatever pennies they’re not spending on guns, ammo, and camo’.
I remain hopeful that a good deal of this money and manpower will be pissed away on a fruitless battle to keep him out of prison before he dies of syphilitic insanity, simple apoplexy, or a bad Big Mac (is there such a thing as a good Big Mac?).
But there will be hissing and flapping and shitting aplenty before — if — this bird is finally and properly caged.
In the meantime, as Joe and Kamala roll up their sleeves, arm themselves with mops, shovels, and buckets, and get to work, we will be treated to the peacocking of various buzzards-in-waiting, each claiming to be the rightful heir to the Throne of Bones.
The Chosen One will proclaim himself a mighty eagle. But don’t you believe it. He’ll be just another goddamn vulture, hunting a meal. There are still a few toothsome tidbits on the carcass.
• And now, some video of the swearing-at ceremony.
My avocado toast is actually guacamole toast, but whatevs.
Some things should be a no-brainer.
This just in: Americans oppose militant dipshittery, though electing seditionists, traitors, and eejits is apparently A-OK.
Avocado toast, for example. You don’t need a Washington Post-ABC News poll of 1,002 U.S. adults to know in your heart of hearts that a big-ass slice of homemade whole-wheat bread slathered with mashed avocado, onion, tomato, lime juice, and salt makes a delicious start to the morning.
And you’d think you don’t need a poll with an error margin of +/-3.5 percentage points to know that a riot is an ugly thing, especially when it involves the storming and sacking of the U.S. Capitol by the Village Idiot People.
But we got one anyway.
What the hell. Even Inspector Kemp was of two minds on the subject. You wanna know, you gotta ask, I guess.
Hat tip to the inimitable B. Kliban.
“Have you ever heard of insect politics? Neither have I. Insects … don’t have politics. They’re very … brutal. No compassion, no compromise.” — Seth Brundle, “The Fly”
“I’m just peachy, really. Tip-top, actually. Never better. Back at the ol’ desk any day now.”
Well, we seem to have blown right past the question of whether Bugsy Sméagol has The Plague and are now deep into the slimy weeds of lies surrounding just how bad his case might be, O yes, my precious.
This, oddly, may be the one thing about this “presidency” that is not unique, as Chazbo Pierce points out in his weekly letter from The Shebeen (subscription required).
Diseases have croaked as many presidents as have bullets (four apiece). And plenty of administrations have concealed the fact that the president was teetering on the edge of eternity, or at least a couple tacos short of a combo plate.
Now instead of trotting out a platoon of generals or economists to give us the old hocus, and also the pocus, Bugsy’s handlers send us a squad of Walter Reed whitecoats to add their spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down, i.e., what The New York Times calls “conflicting accounts” of his condition.
Over at Mother Jones, Kevin Drum draws our attention to the sociopath behind the curtain, giving us the timeline as he sees it and calling the conduct of Bugsy and his goons “reckless beyond belief.”
I find it entirely believable, but hey, let’s agree to disagree.
This is a cult of personality we’ve been dealing with since Bugsy surfed the golden escalator into the GOP presidential pissing match, in which he proved to be the biggest dick.
You don’t get stand-up guys in a cult. What you get is scabby-kneed old hoors with calluses on the insides of their mouths. Bloated ticks sporting American-flag lapel pins. The occasional professional rat who knows the fastest way off a sinking ship and through a publisher’s office into the talk-show green rooms.
Nobody had the stones to get a hammerlock on Hitler, Stalin, or Mao, either, mostly because those gentlemen would have had them ground into puppy treats for the guard dogs.
This guy may kill a few of his punks too. Not because they stood up to him, but because they bowed down to him, with their faces hanging out in his toxic wind.
Until and unless The Plague gets them, the only thing these spineless hooters are scared of is missing out on their sip from the gravy boat as it goes around The Big Table.
Always nice to see the smarties having a word.
Even if they can’t spell it.
Well.
I’m not sure what he was saying, exactly. But whatever it was, he sure told us.
“We are not amused.”
Adolf Twitler was light on adoring brownshirts last night in Tulsa, and some tech-savvy K-pop fans and TikTok users say they’re at least part of the reason why.
The New York Times got the story, which has since been picked up by other outlets, including The Verge.
Seems the social-media sappers blew up The Big Comeback by acquiring a shitload of tickets with no intention of using them for any purpose beyond creating an ocean of empty blue seats. And thus a stadium that seats 19,000 had just 6,200 nutters, not counting staff, media, box seats, or additional voices squabbling inside pointy heads behind beady, close-set eyes.
In an interview with Bloomberg, campaign spokescreature Tim Murtaugh sneered: “Leftists always fool themselves into thinking they’re being clever. Registering for a rally only means you’ve RSVPed with a cell phone number. Every rally is general admission and entry is first come, first served. But we thank them for their contact information.”
Well, don’t start sucking each other’s dicks quite yet, Tim old scout. Mary Jo Laupp, who posted her own anti-Twitler video on TikTok, told the NYT that many of the people who shared it encouraged people to get tickets using fake names and phone numbers using Google Voice or some other internet-connected phone line.
“We all know the Trump campaign feeds on data, they are constantly mining these rallies for data,” said Ms. Laupp, who worked on several rallies for Pete Buttigieg’s campaign for the Democratic nomination for president. “Feeding them false data was a bonus. The data they think they have, the data they are collecting from this rally, isn’t accurate.”
Patrick O'Grady has been making stuff up since, well, forever. He started doing it for money in high school and didn't quit until he retired in 2022. (To be honest, if you waved enough Dead President Trading Cards at him, he might do it for money again.) Until then, this blog is his pro-bonehead work. For more on Your Humble Narrator, click the comic.
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